You contemplate driving through rush-hour traffic with your book perched on the steering wheel, since you can’t bear to part from it, and are even willing to get a ticket if it means you can just read another page.

You think about it all day, counting down the hours until you’re finally free to read it.

You describe the plot to everyone you see, whether they care or not, because you just NEED to talk about it ALL THE TIME.

You are reminded of the characters days after you’ve finished reading it, haunted by things they said.

You stay up way past your 10pm bedtime, reading ‘just one more chapter’ because you can’t put it down.

You push your own writing to the back burner, since this book is infinitely better than anything you’ll ever write.

You are tortured by the book in the bookstore where you work, as it stares at you longingly as you shelve other books, tempting you to pick it up.